


For the Record (The Flying Fast Canon-Ish Remix)

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fae, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Fairies, Friendship/Love, Gen, May be read as pre-Morgana/Gwen, References to Canon Freya/Merlin, Reincarnation, Second Chances, Wings, all deaths are temporary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-08 00:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11070630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: Not all Fae are born under the hills.





	For the Record (The Flying Fast Canon-Ish Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merlinsdeheune (sindhunathi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sindhunathi/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Flying fast inside the book of Endless Mystery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5855590) by [Merlinsdeheune (sindhunathi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sindhunathi/pseuds/Merlinsdeheune). 



> Merlinsdeheune, I was so excited to get you as my remixee. I dawdled and dabbled over multiple works, but kept coming back to all of your lovely, magical fairy manips, sometimes just because looking at them made me happy. It was also a great deal of fun thinking up various fairy story concepts. In the end, I chose to explore how the canon characters might have ended up as part of your "girl gang of fairies" - and here's where I'll beg your indulgence for that Major Character Death warning! As noted in the additional tags, all deaths are temporary (transitional to characters becoming Fae).
> 
> Thank you to the hard-working, ever-patient Camelot Remix mods for keeping this amazing fest going!

* * *

_Not all Fae are born under the hills. Some are – yes, it's true – mortals stolen at birth, but many more cross over at death._

_Maidens beware, they say, of rough men and rougher ways. Beware of sin and debt; shun hope and longing. Beware, above all, of leaving your heart's work unfinished, for in that gap, no matter how great or slim, the Fae will find a way, will creep in and make you a bargain you can't refuse._

_(As is customary with all such things "they" say, there are truths hidden in the pigshit, a great deal more pigshit that is exactly that, and truths no mortal who hasn't met me could possibly imagine.)_

* * *

**"I don't want you to go."**

Freya feels the blaze as but a moment's itch, soon soothed by the cooling waters of the lake. She knows she's not alone – hears the whispers, feels the thrum of magic – but takes her time opening her eyes. She doesn’t want to muddy the memory of Merlin's dear face, so handsome in his sorrow. 

Her reverie is interrupted by the sound of retching. 

"Mooning over _Emrys_ , really?" 

Freya opens her eyes. She's lying on the floor of a great, gilded hall, surrounded by a colourful throng of winged beings. Some wear flower caps; others have masses of hair knotted into fantastic shapes. Their teeth, when they smile, are sharp. Their skin seems to glow.

Fairies, Freya thinks, remembering the tales her mother told, the little offerings of butter and beer left on windowsills, the flower chains cast into the lake.

"There truly is no accounting for taste." The speaker is the littlest of the group, a greenish female with a high forehead and elaborate pouf of fair hair. She crouches down beside Freya's head. "Now, as pretty and tragic as you are, luvvy, I haven't got all day. Do you want these or not?"

"Want what?" Freya says. "Who _are_ you?"

The little fairy sighs, then gives Freya a hard flick between the eyes.

"Your wings," she says, pointing into the crowd. "And you may call me Mab."

Freya sits up, sighting along the line of Mab's finger. Two of the taller fairies are indeed holding up an elegant, lacy pair of wings. They are shades of carnelian, violet, and blue, the colours swirling and blending into one another, shimmering as if wet.

"Much nicer than the last ones, aren't they?" Mab adds in an exaggerated whisper. "Beast-hide is so gauche."

Freya shivers, remembering. "They're lovely, truly, but…I think I've had my fill of flying."

"Poppyswozzle! You've barely known the meaning of the word. But if it helps, don't think of it as flying. Think of it as _freedom,_ and of working for it as your chance to restore the innocence that was stolen from you, to avenge – "

"No," Freya insists, shaking her head. "I don’t want vengeance. I may have, once, but Merlin's shown me what kindness – "

"Yes, yes," Mab cuts in, expression sour for a moment before turning sly. "Of course. Silly me, now who said anything about vengeance? What I meant was, this is your chance to serve, to help others as Emrys helped you. Tell you what – " 

The little fairy folds herself into a tailor's pose and props her elbows on her knees, leaning in. "Curse or no curse, luvvy, you've a lot of slaughter and mauling to answer for, but seeing as how you came by that curse, I'm prepared to offer you a special deal. For every year of your mortal life, three years' service to the Fae, yet you may spend all but one night each month in your precious lake, doing as you please. Wings permanently bonded upon completion, with full benefits, or…"

"Or?"

Mab straightens up, giving a shrug. "Or, if you prefer, you may pass over and join your parents beyond the Veil."

"My mother warned me about making deals with faeries."

Mab grins. "Your mother wasn't stupid. She made excellent butter, by the way, and even better beer, so I'll tell you what she would have: Before you decide, ask me where you'll be on those nights you're not in the lake."

There is a burst of laughter from the assembled crowd, a high-pitched, bell-like tittering. She glances at them, unsettled, then fixes her gaze back on Mab. "I imagine that, should I do so, your response would be 'Anywhere I damn well please,' so instead I'll ask: What services, specifically, will be required of me on the nights I'm not in the lake?"

The assembled fairies crow and clap their hands. "Well done, lass," cry the pair holding her wings.

Mab scrambles to her feet, scowling. "Not stupid either, I see, despite your devotion to that pesky dragonswain." She unfurls a pair of iridescent blue-green wings, sharp as knives, and rises into the air, hovering at Freya's shoulder.

Freya does her best not to wince as Mab darts in close, sinking sharp nails into the shell of her ear. Her voice is shrill, but not unpleasant.

"What would you say, then, to…harassing brigands on the road? Vexing bounty hunters? Steering maidens clear of folly and befouling the wells of boorish men? To start with, of course. Put up some decent numbers there and you'll soon be allowed to choose your own assignments."

Freya looks at the bright wings on offer, finer even than the dress Merlin had stolen for her – and the promise of true freedom finer still – and laughs.

"Very well then," she says. "I accept."

* * *

_Maidens beware, they say. Beware strong opinions and belligerent thoughts. Beware the lust for power. Beware unnatural ambitions, heightened curiosities, and the bitter sap of jealousy. Beware lashing out, whether by tongue or by hand, for it will surely visit similar violence upon you, and then where will you be? You will leave the world as a vengeful, restless spirit, ripe for being preyed upon by those wicked Fae._

_(Beware being your average mortal woman "they" might as well say. I have not met a single one who did not secretly dream of more, better, different or, at the very least, of throttling some man of her intimate acquaintance.)_

* * *

**"Goodbye, Morgana."**

Morgana wakes gasping for air, clutching at her chest. The spasm passes quickly, though, replaced by a feeling so unfamiliar it takes her some time to wrap her mind around it. It's a lightness in her bones, a spreading warmth along her skin; it's the utter absence of pain – of fear, rage, grief – without the numbing fog of wine or potions. It is _peace._

Morgana closes her eyes to savour it, and promptly feels a sharp pinch on her nose.

"Ow!"

There's a peal of high-pitched laughter. Morgana opens her eyes to find a sprite with a messy bouffant and rather sharp teeth hovering nearby by aid of a pair of gleaming, iridescent wings.

Not just rumours then, she thinks, though not with the triumph she would have expected. She feels so blissfully _warm_. 

She looks around and sees that she is no longer in the forest, but a sort of cottage. It is squat and round, filled with simple, well-made furniture and brightly-dyed linens. There is a bowl of apples on the table. Bundles of herbs hang drying above a banked fire 

"You have been very wicked, Morgana Pendragon. But…" The sprite waggles her head this way and that, sniffing at the air. "You have also had much wickedness done to you, and that's where I come in. Tell me, what would you be willing to do for another chance at your heart's true desire?"

Morgana sighs, rubbing her temples. It is habit, nothing more, for the headache is gone. "Queen Mab, I presume? Of the Impenetrable Forest?"

"The very one." The sprite sketches a bow mid-air. "Though the titles are out-dated. Bit of a shakeup under the hills in recent months. Immortal politics, you know, every so dreary."

"Hm. And what would you know of my heart's true desire?"

Mab flies in close, reaching into a pouch at her waist and flinging glittering dust in Morgana's face. 

For a moment it stings, like sparks from a bonfire, then she's treated to a vision so perfect she's left smiling into the distance, stroking across her own shoulder over fingers that aren’t there. 

"What?" Morgana says. "But that's not…Surely she'd never, not after…" She shakes her head then, after ascertaining that she is, in fact, whole – that there is no rent in her gown, no bloody sword wound – she gets to her feet. "I have not been that woman in many years."

"You have not been _allowed_ to be." Mab follows her up, hovering at eye level. "That doesn’t mean she's not still in there."

"Shoo!" Morgana tries to swat the sprite away, but she's too quick, flitting about with the droning buzz of a trapped fly. "If I cannot pass over, leave me to wander. Give my wings to some poor wretch who doesn’t know any better."

"Can't," Mab says, finally coming to a halt and hovering just out of arm's reach. "They're bespoke. Kicky little number in the rarest crimsons and gold. Will look gorgeous with your hair. So, no matter how long it takes you to earn them – and it will be a great many years, I assure you – they can’t be bonded to anyone else."

"So burn them, then," Morgana says, gesturing towards the fire. "Can't you see all that I've lost, that I _have_ lost, full stop? My story has ended. I want no part of your foolish schemes."

Mab's grin is bright and mocking. "For all you've lost, I can see you've still got your flair for the dramatic. Don't you at least want to see them? The spinners and weavers have outdone themselves; the whole workshop's been in a tizzy, in fact, since they heard whom they were for. You're quite the celebrity in our halls."

"If you think to sway me with empty flattery…"

"I merely state the facts, luvvy. Now look, if it helps any, I can ensure that the initial terms of service are compatible with your, shall we say, specific grievances in life. I refer of course to your father and his ilk."

"And what would you know of my specific grievances against – " Morgana stops short as Mab darts in to whisper in her ear. She gives a startled laugh at what she hears. "You would really allow me to vex them so?"

"I would insist on it. Young Freya's doing a bang-up job with the living scoundrels, but great and terrible men make great and terrible shades. Someone must keep them in line, or there'll soon be mutiny on the Isle. And if you ever tire of such work, there will be other opportunities."

"Very well, then. Let's hear your terms in full."

* * *

_Beware, they say, of loving too freely, of nursing a wide and foolish heart. Beware of hoarding secrets and dwelling on regrets. Beware where you lay your head when the moon is new, or of sleeping during the day. When you wake, pass your fingers before your lips and hope that your breath is warm. Blink thrice, clear the dream residue from your eyes, and pray you do not see old Mab before you with her terrible smile, asking, "Do you know how fairies earn their wings?"_

_She will tempt you, they say, with the promise of immortal life, the possibility of great wealth and happiness. And when you accept her terms, the Fae will steal you away to their workshops under the hills. They'll use you as a slave until what's left of your mortal soul has withered and died. Then and only then will they grant you your beautiful wings, welded to your back with fairy fire, and release you to roam the world, searching for new mortals to entice._

_(It all sounds very poetic and ominous, I'll grant you, and there may be a few of us who, on our worst days, wish it were true. And yes, restless or unhappy souls are more apt to wake in our halls, and must work for their wings, but all such contracts are freely negotiated and include an excellent benefits package, and we offer regular opportunities for re-assessment, re-negotiation, and task re-assignment. For example I, myself, am preparing to move into hoard management as soon as my new apprentice – previously our top shade-wrangler – earns her wings. Any day now, is what I'm hearing. A matter of forgiveness.)_

* * *

**"Rest well, my lady. I'll send Willa to fetch you before supper."**

Gwen wakes with Sir Leon's words nestled in her ears. And the thing is, for once she _has_. She feels better than she has in a long time – no aching joints or prickling sweat, none of the sadness that often lingers from her dreams – yet when she brings a hand to her face, it feels damp, and her fingertips come away shimmering.

"Willa?"

There are flecks of gold, green and a rich, royal purple. It's like no cosmetic Gwen's ever seen, the particles very fine, but visible, and constantly shifting. There is a strong smell of meadowsweet and spring onions.

"Willa, what on earth…?" 

As she struggles to sit up, Gwen feels a strange sensation in her back, a spasm between the shoulder blades, and sees flashes of blue in her peripheral vision. She calls for her maid a third time, but Willa does not appear.

And no wonder: Looking around, Gwen sees that she's no longer in her day chambers, but a sun-dappled glade, wet with dew and bursting with wildflowers. When she examines her hands, she finds her skin a firm and gleaming brown, her knuckles no longer swollen.

"Hello?" she calls out, and is immediately forced to shield her eyes from a near-blinding light. There is a buzzing noise, then a loud pop. The voice that answers her is one she's never been able to forget, nor ever thought to hear again.

"They suit you well," Morgana says, then, "Hello, Gwen. I hope, in time, you can forgive me."

"My… Why, Morgana, is that really you?" Gwen lowers her arm as the brilliance fades. 

She has had decades now to get used to such blatant use of magic, but her former mistress – her supposedly _dead_ former mistress, then friend, then tormentor – seemingly materialising out of thin air in a definitely-magical youth-restoring glade is on a whole other level.

Morgana looks well though, not dead in the least. Her skin is radiant, her hair as sleek as it had been at eighteen. The buzzing sound gets louder. Gwen thinks she sees a ripple of movement in the black tresses.

"Why've you got bees in your hair?" she blurts. It's not what she intended to open with, nor the most pressing question, really, but Morgana's always had that effect on her. 

"I beg your pardon!" A tiny figure struggles free from the curtain of hair and flies – yes, _flies_ – down to perch on Gwen's knee, patting her own wild mass of flaxen hair into a pouf on top of her head. " _Not_ a bee, luvvy. And you – "

She whirls back around, looking up at Morgana. "How many times do I have to tell you to triple-check your spatials before re-sizing yourself? Now where's Freya? If you've smushed her, that'll set you back _months_ on your contract, and I – "

"Calm yourself," Morgana says, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. "We have a system now." She reaches up to one ear and plucks off what Gwen had assumed to be an ornament of some sort, shimmering in jewel tones of carnelian, violet and blue.

She sets it on her palm and pokes it with a finger, murmuring, "All clear, little one. Come say hello to Gwen. Show her your beautiful wings."

To Gwen, she adds, "I asked her to come today as I hear they take some getting used to. If you're not born to them, I mean. I thought you might have questions before you decide."

"Of course," Gwen says, completely befuddled. She watches the small creature stretch, unfurling wings bright and dainty as a butterfly's, then give a shy wave. "Um, decide what, exactly? Where are we? Are those real live fairies?"

The creature on Gwen's knee throws her hands up with a noise of disgust and flits away, coming to rest on Morgana's shoulder. "This one's all yours, luvvy."

"I certainly hope so," Morgana says, locking eyes with Gwen. She seems softer somehow, almost nervous, though no less proud. "I mean, if you accept the wings, if you can forgive me, I… I thought we might start again."

"Oh, Morgana, I forgave you long ago, to be honest. It took too much energy not to, but…" Gwen trails off, distracted once more by the flashes of blue in her peripheral vision. She puts it together with the odd sensation at her back and the sight of the two fairies before her. "Did you say _wings_?!"

* * *

_(One further aside: Some souls come to us wings already earned because one life wasn't enough for all the love in their hearts, or because they are so dear to this land it cannot bear to see them leave. They are free to refuse, of course. We are not tyrants. But some do choose to stay and serve, and they are the merriest, most radiant among us.)_

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> The original work includes six pieces, one for each of six different female actresses/characters in _Merlin_. I chose to focus on the characters whose canon deaths I knew about (or had a strong headcanon for, in Gwen's case ) given the scenario I'd envisioned for how mortal women become Fae. I also liked how this naturally led to Morgana  & Gwen (or Morgana/Gwen) feels. While there are no explicit ships in the art, Merlinsdeheune gave permission for works to be combined and F/F ships created, so hopefully I haven't overstepped.
> 
> For more of Merlinsdeheune's takes on Fairy!Gwen and Fairy!Morgana, please see:  
> [Now its time to Dream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4912042) and [Come not near our Fairy Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4911832). The former, especially, was also an inspiration for this piece.


End file.
